and the heroes fall
by Thingygazinga
Summary: Nico's thoughts in a world of superheroes.


Typhoon was a hero.

A savior. The one who swooped in, riding on a massive wave that fluctuated like a sentient being, floating off the ground like a hoverboard.

Percy Jackson was a hero.

To Nico, he always seemed too far, too close. Sea green eyes, dark hair, tousled and ready, haphazard and still. Percy Jackson was the embodiment of the idealized cartoons sketched on paper, a comic of capitalized and bold letters, screaming words weaving into a plot, characters standing with gloved hands on hip, the sun illuminating their features in all the right ways. Poised tall in their perfect, unsurpassed, virtuous hero _way._

They worked at the same agency, passed by each other in the halls. Sometimes, Percy will shoot him a smile. Sometimes, Typhoon would wink, salute, before speeding to his next mission. Sometimes, his mask would be half-on, half-off, and Nico would wonder how it would feel to be stuck between one alias and another. How it felt to know that, just minutes ago, the city lights were right at his fingertips, and the elastic tech of a mask was plastered unnoticeably to his eyes, a thin blocking of an identity long held.

Sometimes, Nico wondered what it was like. What it was like to be Percy Jackson, to be Typhoon, to be so loved and so powerful and so _good_ and _bright_ that sometimes it physically hurt to compare the hero to anything else but a deity.

(Because Percy Jackson was a normal high school student who stumbled over his shoes, but Typhoon was a regal fighter, copied and emulated into plastic figurines and written conspiracies.)

And then Nico would feel something akin to a secret, shared just between Percy and himself-just the two of them, friends, associates, two guys who possessed knowledge that the rest of the world were suspended from. Which was silly because they worked in the same agency, the same small agency where no more than twenty superheroes had to work together, be together, know each other and their ways. In CAMP, everybody was in on the secret, and so it wasn't a secret.

And so Nico was left like the kids in the streets, who clutched at the rolled up comics and toys in their hands, mouth parted as they looked up at their revered superheroes.

(Stupid. He was a hero himself. Just . . . not. Not like Percy Jackson, not like Typhoon, who stole the spotlight like it shone only for him. He wasn't selfless and self-sacrificing and self-assertive. Because Nico was a hero, but he exuded coldness and everything that heroes tried to prevent.)

Typhoon had the world in his hands. One swell swoop, one cracked joke-it was headlined. One right move, one missed step-it was calculated. One skip, one jump-it didn't matter. Typhoon had the world in his hands, and with that, came the army that stood after him.

He was the greatest of their time, possibly the greatest, _period._ Nico probably wasn't the only one striving to claw up the footprints that Percy Jackson left behind.

But he felt like it.

Alone.

In his journey.

(Why could he not live up to the standards? Any standards? Why was he always half and half, his blood accepted but the combination shunned?)

Nico knew he was loved. Possibly. Maybe.

Nico knew his agency was a stable for him. Annabeth (the genius, the hacker, the central intelligence) was cool and calculated, but she was there.

Jason (the golden boy, the caretaker, up on the poster a leap behind Percy) was open and gentle and always open to help.

Piper, Leo, Frank, Hazel, Grover, Reyna-Nico could go on and on about the people of his agency.

(What was he? The corpse-raiser? The shadow-bringer? _WHAT WAS HE.)_

Percy Jackson was a hero.

He was the boy at the back, hoodie pulled over, fingers tapping on the desk so often it was almost background music. He was the boy in the front, swimming and swimming and swimming, reaching for a goal and getting there. He was the boy in the middle, who spread his arms to opponents, mouth set, eyes flashing like some kind of guardian. He was the boy with the heart and the mind to do something and be something.

Typhoon was a hero.

He was the cape and the weapon of the city, and maybe the next one too, and maybe the next time too. He was the smiler and the laugher and the one who snarked at villains like they were teachers at his school. He was . . . he was Percy Jackson.

And Nico couldn't stretch his arm far enough to reach him. (His skeletons clinging to each other like a bridge, but never sturdy enough to walk across.)

But now.

But now Typhoon is stripped of his mask to Percy Jackson, and Percy Jackson is stripped of his skin to . . .

To what?

To a boy, a teenager, clutching at his hair, eyes squeezed shut so that the windows stayed locked from the monsters outside and inside and everywhere (toomuchtoomuchtoomuch), to tears streaming down like the sea green was bleeding through, to hands pressed to the mouth so that the door strains against the name, the title, the pressure, the _typhoon._

Nico walks over, and the footprints are bolder than ever.

He reaches out a hand, and it lands on a back he's been chasing for so long.

(But maybe it had been closer than he had thought.)

 **Right. So this probably makes no sense . . . and it's really sloppily written. But. Moment of inspiration. So . . . this. AND WHERE THE HECK IS THE LINE BREAK THINGY. And also, HOPE YOU ENJOYED. Or maybe you're sitting there like, "What the foof did I just read? That doesn't add up?" And in that case, me too.**


End file.
